


Meet Me In The Aftermath

by Ellie5192



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, fluffy introspection, immediately following s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 04:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12148677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: "She didn’t like him when they first met. Not that it was her job to care either way, but regardless, she didn’t like him or even respect him one little bit when he first returned home to Ballarat."Missing scene, post s4, canon-compliant.





	Meet Me In The Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> You can all blame my rewatch of season one for this, especially emotional little Blakey in 1x02. Title comes from the song of the same name, which influenced this fic. I also stole a few moves from Patrick Turner of Call The Midwife, because he and Lucien Blake were absolutely doctor buddies during war years.

 

**Meet Me In The Aftermath**

She didn’t like him when they first met. Not that it was her job to care either way, but regardless, she didn’t like him or even respect him one little bit when he first returned home to Ballarat. He was aloof, and somewhat brash, and he walked around the house as though he was the only one losing Dr Blake Senior, forgetting that she’d been in his employ and living in this house for near on six years. Forgetting that everyone’s lives were a little more uncertain with the impending passing of the kind old man. Forgetting that loss was always a shared experience.

And what would he know about his father anyway? She’d never even met Lucien Blake, so it had been at least six years since he’d been home, probably much longer, and other than brief words about having a son living abroad the elder barely mentioned him. If they knew each other at all, they kept it well hidden from her. Then in he came, sulking like a child over the sorry state of his father’s health, lurking around corners with an air of pure misery.

She didn’t know the first thing about this prodigal son, except to say that when she first met him, she didn’t like him.

And then, piece by tiny piece, she started to see through him. She’d always been a shrewd woman, reading people and gathering the gossip in order to form a rounded opinion of an individual. Let those without sin cast the first stone, and even the most unpleasant person deserved more than a cursory glance, so she tried to afford him at least that courtesy. Despite her initial impression – and it had been a strong impression – in the weeks that followed the good doctor’s passing she started to get the distinct feeling that there was a lot more to Lucien Blake than he let anyone see. She prodded him, and tested him, and gave him excuses to prove her first impression true – she practically threatened to leave him high and dry, framing her words just-so to see what his reaction would be.

She had not been prepared for tears. Well, _almost_ tears, but certainly a depth of emotion that betrayed just how much he valued her company, as inept as he was at showing her. He had been happy to let her go, if that’s what she truly wanted, but the palpable relief when she instead chose to stay with him had nearly knocked her over. It had been so heartening to hear that he didn’t want her around just so she could dust the bureau and cook a hot meal. He wanted her for her mind, and for her ability to tell him off like a child if necessary, which she was all too happy to oblige, and (she got the distinct impression) he wanted her around because she was the first person in a long time that he could bare to live alongside as an equal. He valued her; all of her, not just the bits Blake Snr had hired her for. Aside from it being thoroughly disarming to see such a brooding personality reduced to verbal fumbling, it had left her with a sense of security. For as long as he needed a partner, she would have a home.

He had frustrated her, no doubt – he didn’t act like any man she knew, and she found that difficult to deal with. He was a hopeless drunk but a docile one, almost happy, or at least not ferocious. (She would never pretend his scotch-filled stupors were all sunshine and roses, remembering vividly that he must have been in such mourning back then. Remembering that the nights he didn’t drink often ended in shouting nightmares or endless pacing. So much pain she hadn’t understood gathered up inside a man who was genuinely sorry every time she got a glimpse of it. No, perhaps happy was not the right word for his drunkenness. But at least he hadn’t been a morose and violent drunk the way Christopher could be on scotch, so that was a start). Lucien was a gentle man, but not what some would call _soft_ , intimating other hidden truths. He was strong – even resorting to a bit of biffo to defend her and other people in need – but never brutish. She struggled, then, to understand just where he sat on the spectrum of men she had encountered in her life. Was this the effect of living overseas? Was it his life experiences, varied and troubled, that had created such dichotomies? So many questions bugged her in those early days, and it had taken a long time, and a little bit of snooping, for her truly understand.

And she loved him for it. Not right away, not all at once, but slowly and over time she came to appreciate his idiosyncrasies. It was a rough beginning as they worked each other out – she challenged him to be a domestic partner for the first time in a long time, and he pushed boundaries she had long since accepted as concrete in her life, and somewhere along the way it became like a kind of marriage. Drawing out hidden depths in the other, pulling threads loose that hadn’t been touched in years, shining lights in dark corners and facing the monsters they found there, together. Always together.

At first she grew to like him – even actively defend him against other’s salacious opinions – and she respected his way of trying to help their community even if it was unorthodox. Then she grew fond of him, amused most of the time and frustrated daily, but invariably endeared to him. They became, if nothing else, genuine friends, with all four of them living in that house together like a kind of family. And then, somewhere along the way (moment by infinitesimal moment, every touch of her arm, kind word, or impossibly generous gesture; his welcome arms open to her son the final piece of the puzzle) she realised that the reason she stayed had nothing to do with this being her home, but because of _him_. Because the thought of leaving felt too painful; a foreign and completely unreasonable concept. Only the pull of her children was more powerful, and when he followed her on that bus he broke free the last of her resolve. It had been her long-awaited sign – not merely proverbial, but an honest-to-God living sign that he would follow her anywhere. Because he felt the same. Because all those lingering looks and fleeting touches and tension in the air had not been misread. Because he loved her too.

Letting him into her heart had been as natural as breathing. Letting him go – no matter how briefly – had been harder than losing Christopher. At least with death there was finality; there was a clear path ahead that involved her standing alone and picking up the pieces the best way she knew how. At least losing Christopher hadn’t left her living in the same house as him, unable to touch him or hold him, having to stand firm and be strong in her rejection, ensuring he did the right thing; that he stood by the proper woman. Making sure he followed a path he clearly didn’t want to be on, not because it was easy for either of them, but because it was customarily right. She’d never known pain like it, and regardless of the outcome, she could not be glad for it (the way some people seemed thankful for their trials and the strength they afford), only thankful that it seemed to have finally passed. It had been an impossible situation for all involved, and one day she would look back and be grateful for Mei Lin’s kindness and understanding. Her desire to reunite with their daughter and make a new life in China had afforded Jean her own happiness, and for that the two women would always be linked in friendship.

And so now she stood in their driveway, the crunch of gravel under Frank’s car tires still fresh in their ears, and all she could feel was relief. Palpable, blessed relief, to be allowed to kiss him again, hold him again, to envisage a future where they were happy and together without fear or boundaries. She stood there and faced him as he announced he had something to ask, and knew what he was going to say before he’d even realised he was going to say it. A part of her still rallied against it – _too soon_ ¸ her rational mind screamed, _let the dust settle._ But she wasn’t paying attention to that voice now, because he was standing there looking at her like it was the first time he’d seen colours, and she knew.

“There’s something I need to ask you” he said.

She knew. In the smile playing in the corner of his mouth, in the tenderness of his eyes, in the conscious way he stepped forward, she knew there was no other outcome than this. Her eyes stung with tears and her face smiled widely of its own volition, as if unable to contain this much joy.

“Will you do me the honour-” he started, and tears came to his eyes too, the same way they did back in the beginning, when he was glad she was staying. So many small steps forward to reach this point, she thought, each one adding to the last, until the two of them were so much more than the sum of their parts. Her hand reached forward just a little in the space between them, and he took it in both of his, never once looking away from her face. “- of marrying me?”

She felt her own tears fall hotly on her cheeks, but still she grinned. One of his hands came up and with the back of his finger he wiped them away with a tender smile. Even that small gesture didn’t feel as new as it should have, and she was acutely aware of the many memories already forged between them. When he wiped away her second tear track, his hand lingered and then turned so he was cupping her cheek in his palm. The space between them got smaller again, and for a brief moment her eyes closed in bliss. Her free hand came up on top of his, resting against her jaw, and she held him there.

She opened her eyes, saw the look on his face, and fell in love all over again.

“I thought you’d never ask” she said softly, the inevitability of this moment hanging between them.

Her words felt heavy, weighted with all the happiness and the hurt that had come before. They didn’t laugh – it was still far too raw to laugh and maybe, over this, they never would – but they smiled at each other in a way that conveyed they both understood. Yet still, she was surprised when a tear fell from his eye, and she took her hand away from his where it still held her cheek, and she wiped the tear away with the pad of her thumb, leaving her hand against his cheek in a perfect mirror of him.

What a pair they must have made, she thought, as they both leaned in and kissed again, slower and gentler and (if it wasn’t sacrilegious to say) with complete reverence. They stayed in the moment for several long heartbeats. Lips still touching, he raised her other hand – still clasped firmly in his – and pressed it against his chest, right above his heart. She squeezed his fingers in her own. Their lips broke apart, but the rest of them did not, eyes remaining closed as they felt the adulation in each other. Her forehead rested against his brow, begging to stay close to him, her fingertips lightly flexing against his beard in a soft caress.

“Yes, Lucien. I will marry you” she whispered, making sure she had answered him properly this time, uninterrupted. Her hand against his jaw could feel his lip quiver and then his teeth clench. She felt him breathe out against her cheek – one stilted little puff – and couldn’t believe she’d ever disliked him, even a little bit. (Probably tomorrow he would remind her of why – he would pull a silly little stunt that either proved his childishness or caused her immense frustration. Blowing up the telly again came to mind, if he really wanted to test her patience. But in that moment, standing there in his arms as they both struggled to keep their composure, she couldn’t imagine not loving him).

She could feel the thump of her heart inside her chest, heavy and deafening, although not especially fast, and it seemed to be humming the same thought over and over brought forth from the very depths of her soul; _I found you, I found you, I found you_ , it sang, like a prayer she could turn to for guidance. It was the overwhelming feeling the sonnets wrote about, that she’d never fully understood in her pragmatic young love with Christopher. It was at the same time terrifying and calming, leaving her out of sorts but begging for more; it lifted her up even as she felt, for the first time in weeks, like her feet had finally landed on solid ground.

Suddenly, all at once, the heavy tension around them fell away and in its place was unadulterated elation. They pulled back just enough to be able to see each other, matching euphoric grins breaking out on their faces, and in one sweeping move he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him. He held her close (the way he used to do in Adelaide, before any of the hurt had made its home inside their walls), his body folding around hers like he was trying to eliminate any spaces between them; like he was trying to make them one. (A small voice suggested they soon would be, and she fought a blush). If they had been younger and sillier he might have picked her up and spun her around. But instead they stood there, a very gentle sway rocking through them. They were mirrored again, each of them with one hand around the other’s shoulders and waist, faces buried in the space between shoulder and neck.

The air tingled with all the things they hadn’t said, and all the things still left to say ( _I’m sorry_ and _I love you_ warred quietly for dominance, but all of that would come out in the wash later), and although they were both pragmatists in the end – she wouldn’t allow them to wallow in self-pity – there seemed the distinct impression now that this was precious. That this was breakable. It made them treasure it all the more, but perhaps treat it with more caution too, like a fine porcelain vase at risk of shattering if dropped from any height.

They pulled away then, for good this time, and Lucien took her face gently in his hands and planted one last kiss on her forehead, like sealing a promise. She smoothed her hands down the front of his vest and then let her hands drop, as did he. Yet evidently he was not keen to let her go, because he turned them back towards the house by planting her hand in the crook of his elbow, leading her forwards like a gentleman. She obliged him, not particularly eager to let go just yet either. Things still felt precarious between them; transient even as they knew now that nothing would break them apart, not after all that.

He didn’t let go of her as they came to the threshold and walked inside the front door, and she was overcome with curiosity. What was he up to, she thought, leading her through the doorway and over towards the practice rooms. Living with him for so long, she was used to trusting him and blindly following him as he lead her down strange and exciting new paths, but this certainly had her interest piqued. After all, what could possibly follow up their moment in the drive?

“Wait here” he said, leading her towards the desk and depositing her just behind the consulting chairs, gesturing for her to stay put, as though she had any intention to leave his side for a moment. As though she would ignore his instructions when he looked so pleased with himself and more than a little bit cheeky. She raised one eyebrow but said nothing.

She watched as he rounded his desk and opened a draw, his hand moving deftly and surely inside like he knew exactly what he was looking for and where he would find it. She rarely went looking through those draws – little need to, really – but she knew they were neat and tidy, the one place in the whole house that he left in a state of organisation instead of total disarray.

He stood up again, object in hand, and stepped back around to stand before her once more. When she caught a proper look at the tiny brown ring box in his hand, she gasped, an involuntary sound of wonder. He had kept it so close – kept it on hand, as it were – and part of her wondered if he had planned to torture himself for the rest of his life with it, having it sitting there in the top draw of his work desk like some sort of talisman. She didn’t put it past him, and the thought made her heart ache for him; they had weathered so much, alone and together, and the thought of him being so sad for the rest of his life was more than she was willing to think about. (Their sadness would have matched; hers in the quiet tears alone in her room, his in the bottom of a bottle, and knowing that future was no longer theirs to live sent a wave of gratitude through her).

“Lucien” she whispered, barely audible like a whisper of wind passing her lips, more a vocal marker than an intention to say anything. She had gained that habit long ago, uttering his name when no other words would do. She wondered if he had a similar problem; so many things to say and so many words caught in her throat that boiled down to single thought and, ultimately, a single word, like a candle in the window leading her home.

“You don’t have to wear it now” he said, opening the box to reveal his mother’s ring. He looked at her – kept looking until she met his eye too, and his gaze was fierce and resolute. “But I want you to have it with you”

He closed the box again, flicking the delicate tiny latch, and then he reached for her hand and placed the box in her palm, closing her fingers around it with his own hands, so they formed a gentle cocoon. There was no mistaking his intention; if they never made it down the aisle it would not matter, for this box – its contents and everything they stood for – were hers, regardless. He would not be giving it to another so long as he drew breath. Her other hand cradled his, joining the pile of fingers and palms, and it seemed suddenly poetic that the two of them would nestle the ultimate symbol of love and commitment between them as though keeping it safe. They looked at their joined hands, both of them mesmerised even as he continued to speak.

“It’s yours” he said, his throat catching around the words. “It belongs with you.”

He looked up at her with a watery smile, waiting for her to catch his eye again, and the moment suddenly seemed light once more, filled with promise and a bright future. She smiled at him.  

“And whenever you decide to put it on…”

He squeezed her hands in his own and then let go, leaving her with just the box to hold; the biggest promise he could make wrapped in such a small package.

“…well, that will be just fine by me”

And he grinned at her, happy and teasing and generous, and it was as though she was feeling the sun on her skin after days of winter storms. She felt a compulsion then, to make as grand a gesture as he had, and to show him once and for all that she was all in. Her willingness to step aside before was borne of duty and not at all her own desire, and she needed him to understand, to his core, that she was his, with everything she had, because she couldn’t give him up. She had tried to give him up, and instead he had sat inside her heart like a stone at the bottom of a river – covered, perhaps, by depths of water, but ever-present and unmoving. She needed him to know.

She unclasped the box in her hand, pulled the ring softly from its pillow, placed the box on the desk and then, holding his gaze with the same intensity as he’d shown her before, she slid the ring into her finger. It fit perfectly. (Later, when she was less heady, she would recall that her first engagement ring had gone missing and reappeared under suspicious circumstances, and she would scold him as she kissed the self-satisfied smirk from his face. But right now, she was only thinking of putting it on her finger). He looked shocked, even taken aback by such a brazen display, but underneath that she could see he was pleased by it beyond measure. She wanted him to be pleased. She wanted everything for him. And she was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he felt the same way for her, and the thought made her giddy. Perhaps they would keep it secret for a while yet – her rational brain had not taken total leave – but in the privacy of their own home, only moments after being asked to marry him, it seemed only right she wear it for now.

He took her hand in his – softly, the way a gentleman would greet a lady at the front door – and raised it to his lips to kiss her fingers, right on top of the ring. She smiled at him, a look of pure adoration on her face. And that was that. The two of them, forever now.

She didn’t like him when they first met. She thought him impetuous and selfish, and more than a little standoffish. But now she could see through that; she knew most of his scars – not all certainly, but they had years to learn each other, and if she never knew it all it wouldn’t matter because she knew enough. Now she had seen his kindness shine through his own pain; had seen the way he took on the burdens of others and drank them away so they didn’t have to; had seen how deeply he loved, and how completely he loved _her_ , and the lengths he would go for those he cared about. All those actions – grand and small equally – had seemed an improbable fit for the man she first met those years ago. Her first impressions of people were usually pretty spot on, but Jean Beazley had not been prepared for Lucien Blake. She hadn’t liked him when she first knew him, but now she couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. Now she loved him, beyond all reason. Now she would be his wife.

She had never been so glad to be wrong.


End file.
